


on what crumpled sheets

by minarchy



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 17:01:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minarchy/pseuds/minarchy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And now Clint is lying on the end of the motel bed on mustard sheets that fray at the edges and in patches across the middle like gentle scars with his legs hanging off the end, and his position really isn’t good for his back and he can feel his spine complaining already at the unwanted curvature but he cannot move because then he’ll have to face the fact that he feels like he is drowning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	on what crumpled sheets

**Author's Note:**

> when my chest unconstricted at last, did yours? [♫](http://youtu.be/0WEijZMuQTg)

 

     _some people think love is the end of the road, and if you’re lucky enough to find it, you stay there. other people say it just becomes a cliff you drive off, but most people who’ve been around awhile know it’s just a thing that changes day by day, and depending on how much you fight for it, you get it, or you hold on to it, or you lose it, but sometimes it’s never even there in the first place. — **Colum McCann** _

 

The heat blurs everything until Clint feels it pushing at the back of his eyes, clawing underneath his skin and he wants to sit for hours under the pathetic, lazy shower that never runs hotter or colder than lukewarm but damn he will take it, anything to get rid of the feeling of grit behind his eyelids.

Sometimes SHIELD sends them out on individual errands. Clint is still agent first and an Avenger second, at least in Hill’s eyes, and he’ll take the simple extraction if it gets him out of HQ even for a day or two, even for a few hours but Clint got lucky, they sent him across the country and he’s on radio silence and it’s absolutely fucking _blissful_ ; except the extraction was of information and it became more of a containment because the target was going to talk and that was something that SHIELD were not prepared to allow.

And now Clint is lying on the end of the motel bed on mustard sheets that fray at the edges and in patches across the middle like gentle scars with his legs hanging off the end, and his position really isn’t good for his back and he can feel his spine complaining already at the unwanted curvature but he cannot move because then he’ll have to face the fact that he feels like he is drowning. He prefers the cold, the way it bites and gnaws at the ends of his fingers because that doesn’t stop him functioning, instead narrows the world down to the string and the point and the target in his sights. This heat drags his mind open, tugs it unwillingly across the scrubland until everything blurs and he cannot focus.

“Clint,” says Phil, and Clint blinks and moves his eyes to look at him, hair damp from where he’d pushed water over his face and neck to clear the dust out of his pores.

One more good thing is that he needs a supervisor and he’s been careful to destroy enough relationships with the suits in the division that the only option is Phil, now. He smiles.

“Phil,” he says.

A long moment; and then Phil is sitting on the bed next to him, lying down so their shoulders almost touch and Clint can see in his mind’s eye how the buttons on his shirt pull taut because Phil hasn’t rearranged it. His tie is hanging over the only chair along with his jacket, and the top two buttons of his shirt are undone. Even Phil Coulson isn’t immune to the heat.

Clint moves his fingers, a twitch against the back of Phil’s lax hand, a request for permission to roll onto his side and wrap his hand around Phil’s neck and kiss him, slide his tongue into Phil’s mouth and give him something to focus on. Phil meets him halfway because that’s how they work no matter what they are doing, in the field or otherwise; question and answer and cooperation and consent. Phil presses the heel of his hand against the curve of Clint’s ribs where they begin to level out from the diagonal slant, just below his underarm and right where he broke them for the first time, falling from the trapeze and shattering the bone in a way that frayed the nerves like the coverlet below them.

He has training to resist the pressure but he doesn’t want to think about that, about how he would be kicked _right there_ and the pain would be shattering, lancing up into his brain and blinding him in one eye but he would not react because that would be leverage; he wants to think about how Phil presses down on torn nerves that will never properly heal in just the right way to spark a shudder of sensation across Clint’s skin that he can only associate with the knot and stab in the pit of his stomach that is _Phil_ and will never be a bad thing that he has to run and hide from.

(even if Phil leaves or is taken because that will be all Clint has left of him because SHIELD is pretty omniscient and can hardly be unaware of the unprofessional aside in their relationship but they will never release Phil’s possessions to him, so Clint takes what he can and locks it away inside of the twist and knot and stab that _hurts_ in a way that sets his fingers on fire)

Phil pushes, and Clint pushes back, a twist of his spine and a quiet, shameless moan into Phil’s mouth and his fingers wrap over Clint’s ribs and grip, forcing him over onto his back and then Phil isn’t kissing him any more. He’s smiling at him in the way that's not really with his mouth and very much more in how the skin crinkles around his eyes

(and Clint wants nothing more than to make Phil smile like that until he gets tan lines and he can kiss them over and over and know _I did this_ and _mine_ and _mine_ )

and Clint wants to kiss him again, wants to kiss him forever but Phil is still smiling and says, pragmatic, “I refuse to fuck you whilst you’re half on the bed,” which makes Clint want to arch his back and just stare at him for hours and endless and ever with his fingers on fire and electricity jolting over his ribs; “move,” says Phil, in the same tone, and Clint follows as ever, bracing his hands against the bed covers and pushing himself up so that he is officially _on_ the bed.

The fabric of his trousers catches and drags on the coverlet and presses and drags the fly across Clint’s cock and he swears he can see the moment that Phil sees his pupils dilate at the friction because the amused line of his jaw relaxes and his face becomes slack and Clint can’t help but moan and whimper a little helplessly because Phil looks like he wants to _devour_ him.

“God,” Phil says, bracketing Clint with his forearms and kissing him, licking into Clint’s open mouth with a slow slide of his tongue and biting on the inside of Clint’s lower lip when Clint says, “just Clint will do.”

A roll of his hips, and Phil knows the best ways to shut Clint up.

He moans and grumbles against Phil’s mouth and he attempts to have enough coordination to suck on Phil’s tongue and push his hands under Phil’s shirt or better yet, undo it and have yards of skin under his palms, and Phil’s answering breath is a laugh and a moan at the same time and he pushes Clint’s t-shirt up far enough to dig his fingers into the spaces between Clint’s ribs and rock down, because he can multitask and likes to prove it, the bastard.

Clint wants to rip Phil’s shirt off him like they do in the movies but Phil doesn’t appreciate it when he does romantic things like that and especially won’t today, because they hadn’t planned on having to lay low in a shitty motel room and he doesn’t have a spare, so he has to settle for fumbling open the buttons and eventually, finally tugging it off him so that Clint has more places to grip and hold on to and can rub a thumb across Phil’s nipple before running down his sides and his stomach to push impatiently at the waistband of his trousers.

Phil is laughing again and Clint wants to bite him again but Phil can multitask and still retains enough motor control to pop the button on Clint’s trousers and slide his hand inside to palm his cock, and Clint half wants to turn Phil into a shivering mess so that he has no motor control left in order to do complicated things like buttons but he also really likes what Phil is doing with his hand, so he cannot really complain.

“Fuck,” he says, bucking his hips against Phil’s hand almost involuntarily, “can we be naked now, for God’s sake.”

“Just Phil will do,” Phil says, lips against Clint’s mouth, and there is something about his terrible humour falling from Phil’s mouth that makes Clint curl his fingers and bite his nails into the skin of Phil’s lower back, which makes Phil jerk down against him and furrow his brow slightly that Clint can feel in the way the skin around his nose moves, and Clint forces the button and the zipper on Phil’s trousers and has probably stretched the stitching around the button hole but he can’t bring himself to care, really, not when Phil is tugging his trousers off with his toes and lifting Clint’s hips so that his are pulled down too.

Socks are lost somewhere in the last kicks against fabric gathered around ankles and Phil’s wearing his usual standard boxers and Clint isn’t wearing any underwear so he can feel the hot press of Phil’s cock against his own and the damp patch in the cotton that sends dull lightning up his spine.

The last of the clothing leaves in a tangled mess that stops and starts when Clint becomes distracted with the cadence of Phil’s breath when he digs his fingers into the crease between arse and thigh and the way his hips jolt when the waistband drags over his cock, and then Phil is between Clint’s legs and he lines them up with his knees underneath Clint’s, bending his legs outwards that makes Clint rail against the lack of lubricant because Phil is _right there_ and _so close_ ; but Phil has rules about that and Clint may mouth off against them but he still respects them because they both have boundaries and this is one thing he can give Phil.

They rock together, skin slick from sweat and precome that smears between their bodies to make the air taste sharp and bitter with salt; Phil has his mouth against the hollow beneath Clint’s ear where his jaw meets his neck and Clint presses open-mouthed, sloppy kisses against the curve of Phil’s collarbone and over the long plane of his shoulder. Phil rubs slow, heavy circles over Clint’s ribs with his thumb and it’s all Clint can do to hang on to Phil and try to pretend that he isn’t feeling _don’t let go_ even when Phil murmurs, “just - hold on to me,” and that’s it for Clint. Heat spirals and lances through him and he digs his nails into Phil’s back and pushes his face into the curve of Phil’s neck, and the pressure against his ribs rides over the edge of pleasurable and starts to hurt as Phil’s movements become erratic.

He feels Phil’s orgasm in the way that the muscles in his back spasm and then relax as much as the further spread of wetness across their stomachs and between his legs, in the way that Phil presses soft apologies into his skin and Clint has to twist and knock his head aside to kiss him or he might die, right now.

Phil rubs semen across Clint’s stomach, feeling the way his muscles jump as his fingers skate over them. Clint screws up his face, which is an effort.

“Gross,” he says, and Phil laughs, doesn’t stop, kisses him instead and then makes to roll off Clint, probably off the bed entirely to wet a towel and clean them up, but Clint doesn’t let him go and so he doesn’t leave. “It’s too hot to move,” he says, after a moment.

“The shower never warms up,” Phil says. He doesn’t move away, just looks at him, the skin around his eyes creasing.


End file.
